


Like Going to War

by Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Brad is unclassy about certain questions and Ray can't believe this dumb bastard is his friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Going to War

"Oh, did you and the missus have a fight?" Ray greets when he opens the door and finds Brad on the other side, backpack over one shoulder and a look on Brad's face that clearly reads, _I would rather be eating nails._

"Shut up and let me in, shitfucker."

Ray rolls his eyes and considers blocking Brad's way until Brad actually says please, but Brad looks like shit, and Ray isn't a complete douche. He steps aside and waves Brad in and waits until he's dropped his bag to ask, "What's the matter? Nate burn the roast?"

"You got whiskey here?" Brad asks.

"Jesus Christ, man, what did you do?" Ray asks as he walks around Brad and pulls the whiskey down from a cupboard. He grabs two shot glasses and clunks everything down on the table before he sits down.

Brad collapses in the chair across from him. Ray pours without being asked, and they do the shots together. When he slams his glass back on the table, Brad follows it down, pillowing his head in his arms. "Fuck this shit," he says.

"Which shit?" Ray asks.

"This relationship shit."

Ray rolls his eyes again because if there's one thing Brad is an overdramatic fuck about, it's his goddamn _feelings_. "If you two had another fight about shitty patio furniture, I'm kicking your ass out to the closest rapehole motel."

"We never had a fight about patio furniture," Brad says, lifting his head and glaring at Ray. Ray flips him off and pours them both another shot.

"Bedroom set or dishes or whatever girly shit it was."

"It wasn't that," Brad says. He slams his shot and holds his glass above the table, rolling it back and forth in his hand. "It was—" He shakes his head and puts down his glass and reaches for the bottle.

Ray yanks it off the table and leans back in his chair, arm extended behind him, when Brad tries to grab it. "I know you're the lankiest motherfucker to ever fold your skinny ass into a busted-ass victor, but you're not getting this bottle back until you tell me what the fuck went down at casa de eyefuck."

Brad makes another lunge. Ray tips back his chair to fend him off. Brad sags back into his chair. "You're a motherfucker."

"Only the very best moms," Ray replies.

"Only the most vernally-wracked moms," Brad mutters.

Ray sighs and slams a hand on the table to make Brad look up. "Come on, fuckface. What the shit." Brad mumbles something Ray can't make out, and Ray raises his eyebrows when Brad looks at him. "Use your words, Brad. And your goddamn diaphragm."

"Nate asked me to marry him."

Ray actually drops the whiskey. It is, luckily, in a plastic bottle and merely bounces off the tile, and when it tips, it only dribbles a little on the floor. Ray drops his chair back to four legs and dives to retrieve it, coming back up to the table with the bottle clutched in one hand. He pours himself a shot and downs it. "Shit," he says.

"Eloquent."

"Fuck you, asshole. I am trying to assimilate some very important information." Ray pulls the whiskey away when Brad reaches for it. "No."

"What the shit, Ray."

"You don't get any more of Daddy Ray's very good booze until you call Nate and apologize for what was probably the worst goddamn response to a question he has ever fucking heard." Ray stares at Brad until Brad looks away, down at his hands, which are both flat on the table. "What did you say?"

"It wasn't—"

"Either quote the shit out of yourself or get the fuck out."

Brad sighs and looks up at the ceiling when he says, "I said marriage was for fags with vacation homes."

"When what you meant to say was, 'Nate, my very favorite cocksucker—"

"Hey!"

"Shut up. 'Nate, my very favorite cocksucker, I break out in a goddamn rash when anyone mentions marriage because I had a shitty experience as a young, stupid fuck and have never dealt with my shit.'"

"What's wrong with how it is?" Brad asks, throwing out his arms. "What's so fucking bad about living in the same house and getting a shared bank account and fucking like crazy—"

"Ew."

"You're just jealous, asshole."

"Not for much longer," Ray says with a shrug. "I figure, I give Nate a week, I can swoop in and rebound that shit."

Brad's glare is actually _dangerous_ , his jaw setting, and the fingers on his right hand curling up into a fist. "You—"

"This is what I'm talking about," Ray interrupts, unconcerned that Brad is prepared to fuck his shit up. "You had a girl. She dumped your ass. She ran off with your very best friend. It's a fucking Lifetime movie complete with the part where you can't handle your goddamn issues, so you go running as soon as the pretty new thing in your life actually talks about the commitment you motherfuckers made to each other with the house and the bank accounts and that goddamn furball that always pisses on my shoes."

"I love that cat."

"You and your boyfriend have a goddamn cat. How is getting a couple of matching rings gonna change the fact you're a goddamn Ikea ad?" Ray makes a face when Brad doesn't say anything for nearly a minute. "That's what I fucking thought."

"Marriage," Brad finally says, and when he grabs for the whiskey bottle this time, Ray lets him have it.

"Fuck the marriage, dude. Worry about how many blowjobs it's gonna take to get you out of the doghouse for running scared from what you already fucking have."

"I—" Brad goes silent when his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, makes a face that tells Ray exactly who's on the other end, and answers it with a quiet, "Hey."

Ray gets up and goes into the kitchen and digs around until he pulls out some chips and dips and a couple of sodas from the fridge. If Brad asks, he's hungry and fuck you he is not being sensitive to Brad's feelings and insecurities by giving him some space. When he walks back over to the table, Brad's off the phone and pouring them both another shot.

"Nate's punishing me by making me stay on your piece of shit couch."

"But you get to keep your dick when you get home tomorrow?"

"Apparently."

"And how many blowjobs did you negotiate?"

"Shut up, Ray."

Ray laughs and cracks open his soda, holding it up with his shot in a toast. "To you, dude. Congratulations on the prettiest gay marriage of the year."

"Fuck your mother, Ray," Brad says, but he grins when the toast and throw back their shots.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a quote by Gilbert K. Chesterton, the entire text of which is: "Marriage is an adventure, like going to war." Seemed to suit.


End file.
